


Canary

by Noctivaga



Category: Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: Drabble, Erik's thoughts at the end of the film, F/M, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-27
Updated: 2010-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24887623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noctivaga/pseuds/Noctivaga
Summary: Erik's perspective at the end of the movie.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Kudos: 1





	Canary

**Author's Note:**

> This was imported from my account DarklingListen on Fanfiction.net.

**We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered."  
** **Tom Stoppard**

_She was everything to me, yet I was nothing to her._

That simple realization had taken far too long to come to me. I was a genius, a genius and possibly more. My mind could span the chasms of any ignorant cusp that would give a normal man pause to enlightened, limitless, options. Nothing could escape my lust for answers and knowledge – and nothing ever eluded my superior comprehension. Until now. Even after every divination of malice, every omen of trouble to come, I charged forward with a bullheadedness that in the end was my own undoing. How did an intuitive creature like me miss every sign hinting at the tragic end to come? The answer was as painful as it was simple: I was blinded by my madness, obsessive compulsions, and dare I say it? Love.

My very world had been held together by the gravity of her light that shone always. Now Christine Daae was gone, forever, from my pitiful life. No longer would she bestow on me an ice melting smile that never ceased to warm my cold indifference towards the cruel human world. Gone she was, rowing away on the small boat and clinging to a weary Raoul de Chagny.

Raoul, the Vicomte, _the boy_ who stole my life's only love away from me. He was meant to love her. It had been a recognition of mine months ago that I was now forced to accept once more as I watched the couple flee from my underground home. So it would seem destiny not only denied me a mate but the love of another, the only other being besides myself that mattered, for a final time. Cruel as it may be, this outcome was somehow fitting, if not half-expected. Did I really believe my desperate attempt this night during the _Don Juan Triumphant_ première would actually work? What chance did I have against the youth, the riches, and the handsome physical appeal of de Chagny? Apparently none.

Few things ever truly shook me anymore. However, Christine openly revealing my _ugly_ visage to the massive crowd gathered in the Paris Opera House to watch _Don Juan Triumphant_ did. I had not expected such a blunt betrayal. My angel, meek and timid, had found the courage to reach out and rip away the black mask that hid away my darkest secret and most painful flaw. Why did I not accept that as a no? What demon possessed me to steal her away through the trap door that plunged us into the under recesses of the Garnier Opera House after that horrific event? Ah, I believe it was my rather uncontrollable anger. The rage that my innocent girl was able to expose me was the cause; that and my egotistical sense of pride being wounded.

Resigned to the role fate assigned me in this wretched world, I watched my songbird leave my fifth cellar home for undoubtedly the last time. She was the pure and lovely dove that was everything good in a society full of corruption and greed. I was the caged canary destined to fly but forever denied. Christine was day and I night. Now that that little detail was finally obligatory to be acknowledged by all. I made my choice then as she had made hers not mere minutes ago.

Though my pride was bruised, I would maintain what sense of humanity and dignity I had left. No, I would not give chase to Christine and the boy. They were free. I promised them that and I _loathe_ broken promises or ones not kept. My gentlemanly ways beseech me not to even think about the lovers anymore. The pain is… more than I think even I, one so use to the physical and psychological anguish, can bear. Still, I will live on in a meager existence at best, but as long as she is alive and happy I cannot bring myself to begrudge Raoul, too much.

Stepping down from the high alcove off to the right side of my layer I made for the wall adorned in mirrors. The blasted things, how I hated them and resented the unyielding truth they always displayed for me. Taking a golden single candle holder in hand I proceeded to smash away at my long time tormenters and allies.

Between the spider-web cracks in the silver substance my monstrous reflection glared back at me with the same intensity it always had. The left side of my lip curled up in disgust at my own image. Where the right side of my face was ravaged and ghastly, my left region was completely normal in contrast. Obviously it is the right quadrant that is the bane of my existence. My eye is sunken in (no eyebrow above it), the skin is stretched tight over my deformed cheekbone that juts out at an irregular and vulgarly sharp angle, and the right side of my nose is collapsed and malformed, though I must admit my pale paper thin skin on _that_ side might be one of the worst parts of the disfigurement. Beneath my frail skin blue blood veins can be seen with a sickening translucency and some of my bone structure looks visible when viewed at the right angle. Yes, mirrors reveal my true continence to me. That's why I cover them with red velvet curtains and use them seldom, unless it is in one of my many torture devices laying about.

With a new zest I took my final swing, blowing away the hated creature before me and revealing a dark tunnel hidden in a nook behind a secluded mirror – similar in format to the one I installed in Christine's room. They – the fop Raoul and Christine – would make their getaway hopefully by skirting around the vicious mob now closing in on me. I was also retreating, though this passageway is not my preferred escape route. Compared to the more direct one the other two are taking this one will be more costly in time and endurance.

Hope is quickly disintegrating inside of me as I glance behind my shoulder one last time. They are gone, and I expected as much, yet a yearning like I've never known kindles in my mangled heart. It was over, truly unmistakably over. _The Music of the Night_ was finished and so was my life. There was nothing left for me but an existence of continued solitude and psychological torture. Happenstance or destiny, it did not matter; that final bridge was crossed and now burning away to leave only anguishing memories and regrets.


End file.
